Redcliffe Castle, Second Floor
by Ashfae
Summary: Alistair/f!PC, f!PC left as vague as possible, just before the final battle. Alistair is king, f!PC has refused Morrigan's offer. Alistair is Not Happy with her current plan to go up against the Archdemon without him...


Alistair storms down the hallway, heedless of how much attention he's garnering; the castle residents may not be familliar as yet with their king-to-be, but they know enough to expect him to be somewhere in the range between quietly determined and flippantly easy-to-please. Open fury and a complete disregard for his surroundings is something new and disturbing.

Those who do know Alistair are even more astonished; one or two move to question him, but he's stormed by without any acknowledgement before they can do more than begin to form his name. He has only one goal, and anything between him and it is an inconvienence, nothing more. He'd go through walls if he could. Morrigan's words are ringing in his ears, her smooth sardonic voice, _Do talk her out of this plan, Alistair. You're the only one who can, and it's just foolish when there's a far more practical solution available..._ Not that he understood half of what she was talking about, not that he even heard her after that first revelation.

The room he's looking for is at the end of a hall on the second floor. He doesn't bother to knock, and if the door had been locked it's entirely possible he would have broken it down. He's their damned king-to-be now, right? So if he wants to destroy a few doors, he will. He flings it open so hard that it slams against the wall, and shouts "What in the _hell_ do you think you're planning?!?" at the room's occupant, heedless of whoever might be listening.

His fellow Grey Warden looks up from the letter she was writing, and puts down her pen by the inkwell. "Shut the door if you're going to yell," she says mildly. When he doesn't, when he just stands there glowering at her and shaking with anger and waiting for an answer to his question, she gets up and closes it herself. She is careful not to touch him as she passes to the door, he notices, and that infuriates him even more, for all that he was the one to end things between them.

She turns and leans back against the now-closed door, arms crossed over her chest. "So what's got you in such a temper, might I ask?"

Her tone is even and calm, her face unemotional, and underneath all the rage is a twinge of grief that she can look at him with such emptiness after all they've been through together. But it's a small twinge under a sea of other rioting emotions and he pays no attention to it. "You know damn well what I'm talking about," he says through clenched teeth. "This..." he waves his hands in a futile gesture, "This _stupid_ suicidal plan to go up against the Archdemon without me."

She doesn't react except to shrug. "You heard as well as I did, Alistair. It will take the death of a Grey Warden to defeat the Archdemon and guarantee he doesn't return. You're needed to be king of Ferelden. Of the two of us, I'm the more expendable."

"Expendable," he repeats. "_Expendable_."

"Yes," she says. "It's really not very complicated. You can't be spared; when it comes to take down the Archdemon, you need to stay back and let me do it. That's all."

She starts to move past him, back towards the desk; he catches one of her wrists in his hand and grips it hard, jerking her to a halt. "No. I forbid it."

That earns a snort of laughter, the likes of which he's never heard from her. "You forbid," she says, irony dripping from each word.

"_I forbid it_," Alistair repeats, gripping her wrist harder, knowing that it must be hurting her now, even if she shows no signs of it. "I am your king and I say you will _not_ do this."

She twists, trying to free her hand from his grip; it doesn't work, and finally he sees something in her eyes, a flicker of anger but at least it's _something_, he'd rather see her angry and hating him than the blankness that's all she's displayed to him since his horrible necessary words after he agreed to take a throne he doesn't want. When she can't get free of him she glowers openly and throws her next words in his face like a gauntlet. "Strictly speaking, _your majesty_, you can't order me to do anything. Grey Wardens are not subject to the monarchy. Our responsibility is to end the Blight, whatever it takes. The laws of the realm don't apply to us."

"Then as your senior Grey Warden," he retorts.

Now her voice is openly scornful. "You gave up that authority after Ostagar, Alistair, and you know it. You can't just claim it now when you think it's convienent."

She tries again to twist free, and she's as used to fighting as he is, but she can't do anything to break this implacable grip of his. She tries to knee him in the crotch, but he knows how to avoid that, how to twist and block her knee with his thigh. While she's distracted with trying to wrench herself free grabs her other wrist as well and forces her back against the door, because she's not listening to him and it's getting annoying. She looks up at him with something almost like hate, and right now that's just fine by him because he almost feels like he hates her too. "You are _not_ going to kill yourself to end the Blight," he says with quiet menace. "We're going to find another way."

She looks up at him, no longer protesting, and her eyes are shuttered again. "There isn't another way."

Alistair presses forward so that her body is fully pinned between him and the door, and he hears her breath catch. His thighs push hers back. His chest is pressed against hers and he can feel it moving against him as she breathes. His hands have forced hers up against the door, on either side of her head, and his face is only a hair's-width away from hers as he stares in her eyes--still expressionless, and he _hates_ that, he's going to make her react if it kills him--and repeats, "_I am not going to let you do this._"

She stays motionless and makes no answer and something snaps and he moves that hair's-width forward to kiss her. Except it's not a kiss, it's him capturing her mouth, with none of the tenderness or laughter or reverence he used to feel when doing this. Instead he's forcing his mouth on hers, forcing his tongue between her lips and teeth, the kiss another weapon to convince her to give up this plan, since words weren't succeeding. And finally, _finally_ she's responding, meeting his savagery with her own, and their kiss becomes a full-out war. He lets go of her wrists to put his hands on either side of her face as though he could crush it between his hands and he's probably leaving bruises, probably already has left bruises on her arms, and he does not care. Her hands are on his shoulders, nails digging into skin, if it weren't for the tunic in the way she might be drawing blood.

Which doesn't stop him from wanting the tunic out of the damn way, she can skin him alive if she wants, because he hasn't touched her in what seems like forever and underneath his anger is sheer terror, _please don't do this, please, it was hard enough to end things as I did but I don't know how to live in a world that doesn't have you in it somewhere, please_, and he has to know that it hasn't happened, it's not going to happen, that she's alive. His hands move over as much of her body as he can reach, breasts and hips and thighs, and he cups his hands on her buttocks and lifts and her legs wrap around his waist. He breaks off the kiss just long enough to glance feverishly around for a handy flat surface, anything, the floor will do if necessary. Her mouth finds his neck while he's distracted, then moves up to bite his ear, wrenching the lobe between her teeth, and he hisses in pain.

Fortunately there's a bed close enough that he doesn't have to resort to the floor; still holding her, he walks them over to it and lets himself fall on top of her. His weight drives the breath from her for a moment, and he uses her distraction to get revenge, biting her neck and jaw and earlobes. Her hands press on his back, her legs are still wrapped around his waist, and if it weren't for the damn clothes he could be thrusting inside her right now so he'd better do something about the damn clothes. He raises himself up on one hand and uses the other to rip her bodice open, which takes some strength but is quicker than undoing the ribbons and buttons and things keeping her skin hidden from him. This reveals her breasts, _Maker_ he's missed her breasts, and he covers them with mixed kisses and small bites, moving his mouth fitfully over all the skin he can find while his hand moves down, pulling the rest of her clothes out of the way, ripping and tearing where necessary, anything to get rid of the barriers between them. Her hands move with the same urgency and desperation he feels, nails digging into the skin just under his neck and tugging uselessly at his tunic, until finally moves so she can pull it over his head. This puts him in a quasi-kneeling position, and she sits up and runs her mouth down his chest, fingers raking afterwards, leaving as much pain as pleasure in their wake.

And then mouth and fingers are at his waist and Alistair's head falls back, eyes clenched and his hands clutching at her shoulders, because she's pulled his trousers down and is taking him into her mouth, and the heat and the wetness and the occassional scrape of teeth and the _heat_ and he pushes her back down on the bed and kicks off what's left of his clothes and then finally, finally, _finally_ he's pushing into her, and now it's her head thrown back as she hisses at the friction. Deliberately he stops for a moment, long enough to get her attention; her eyes open and she stares at him, silently demanding an explanation for the pause, and he slowly begins to thrust again, agonizingly slowly, and speaks with great effort. "You--" thrust "--are--" another slow deliberate thrust, "--not--" and she's mewling now, she's begging for more, but he's not going to give it to her until his point is made, "--_expendable_," and with that he pushes hard, as hard and far as he can, exploding inside her and her quick scream echoes in his ears as her release follows his.

After the post-climax shaking and the ebbing of tension he realizes his face is covered with tears. She's holding him close now, caressing his back and gently kissing his wet cheek, whispering his name. He buries his face in her neck, the horrible, poisonous anger gone and replaced by the love and fear that were its core, and lets her hold him. When his tears run dry he withdraws and shifts position, and she curls onto her side and pulls his arm around her waist so they lie spooned. He rests his head on one arm and lets his other hand rest lightly on her stomach; her hair tickles his nose, and he has no desire whatsoever to move it out of the way.

"Is it because of me?" Alistair asks finally, not wanting the answer but unable to leave it unasked. "Because of...of what I did after the Landsmeet? Is that why?"

She puts her hand on top of his, twining their fingers. "No," she says quietly. "I told you the truth, before. It's because it's my duty. It's part of what we signed up for when we became Grey Wardens."

"I can't accept that."

She rolls over in his embrace and looks at him, wearing a sad smile. "You had to end things between us because of duty, and I accepted that because there was no other option. This is the same, Alistair."

His arm tightens around her waist. "In all our adventures, you found a way, even when things looked hopeless. You rescued Connor when he should have been beyond help. You found a truce between the Dalish and the werewolves when it seemed the only possibilities were war or extinction. There must be a way to do the same here." "Like we found a way to be together despite you becoming king?" she asks sadly. "I'm hardly omnipotent, Alistair. Neither are you."

Something teases at his mind: the conversation that brought all of this on. _A far more practical solution_...not that he trusts Morrigan's definition of practical, not that he trusts Morrigan at all, but he'll grasp at any available straws. "Morrigan said she'd found something, but you wouldn't consider it. What was that about?"

Her expression goes still, the same shuttered face she's worn ever since that horrible conversation. "Don't do that," he whispers, touching her face. "Please. Hate me, shout at me, anything, but don't close yourself off from me."

Her eyes tighten with pain. "That's not fair. You told me not to approach you because it was too painful and tempting. Why are you allowed to protect yourself but not me?"

"What could be so awful that you're more willing to die than to consider it?" he asks, ignoring this and trying to put her back on the defensive.

She shakes her head, not meeting his gaze. "It's not like that."

"No? Looks like it from here."

She doesn't answer, doesn't look at him.

"Please, love," he asks, kissing her forehead. "Please trust me, like you used to. At least talk to me about it. I know I don't deserve it, but let me help you if I can."

With that she laughs--not with pleasure, but a mocking, ironic edge; he can't tell if it's directed at him or herself. "Help _me_," she repeats. "Oh Alistair, love--it's you I'm trying to protect."

He doesn't understand this, and says nothing, just waits.

She is silent for a long time, then sighs and relaxes a little in his arms, decision made. "You're not going to thank me for this knowledge."

He smiles despite that, relieved that she's given in, and kisses her. "I promise to place all the blame on Morrigan instead of you."

She chuckles at this. "I don't doubt that." She moves closer, resting her head against his chest. "Just...give me a few more minutes like this, first." There's a pause, and then she whispers. "Let me pretend for a little while."

Alistair knows what she means, and is only too happy to pretend for a little while himself. They lie there in silence for as long as they can.


End file.
